Jean-Dominique Bauby And The Value Of Time

Jean-Dominique Bauby and the value of time

In the earlier part of this book, we saw that out of Pandora’s box came all the evils of the world. This was Zeus’s “gift” to the wise, beautiful girl who had everything already. In the story, it was meant to be an act of revenge, but in both Frankl’s and Zupan’s case, the “evil” was really a powerful force for good in their lives, one way or another. It’s curious how many people who’ve experienced profound loss and change would have it no other way—and they certainly wouldn’t choose to go back and live a more mediocre life!

Jean-Dominique Bauby is another example, and you may already be familiar with his story if you’ve watched the movie The Diving Bell and the Butterfly, or read the book that inspired it. At the young age of forty-three, Bauby experienced what many of us have only glimpsed in our nightmares: he suffered a stroke and fell into a coma that left him, twenty days later, utterly unable to speak, or to move his arms or legs. He could not even move his mouth.

Can you imagine the horror of waking up to a life so profoundly changed? We can only guess at the shock Bauby must have felt to have lived a full and normal life one moment, only to wake up less than a month later to a new prison—his own body. Inside, his mind worked the same as it ever had, and he could sense the world as always. The only difference was that he couldn’t express himself, couldn’t talk, couldn’t ask for anything. It was as though he no longer had any way to reach and connect with the world outside him. Couldn’t express his pain. Couldn’t ask a question. Couldn’t tell his two young children that he loved them.

But there was one thing he could do—blink. And, just like Zupan had done, he decided not to despair over what he couldn’t do, but capitalize on what he could. Bauby was a journalist by trade, and edited the French fashion magazine Elle at the time.

Words were his living. Remarkably, Bauby, with the help of those around him, found a way to communicate with others through blinking alone. An associate would read out loud the letters of the alphabet and Bauby would blink when he reached the letter he wanted. Then the alphabet would be read again and so each letter, each word and sentence was painstakingly put together through the only channel left open to Bauby—the tiny movements of his eyelids.

In the many hours he spent alone and in bed, Bauby had only his imagination to keep him company, and in time composed a book that he would then “dictate” to his friend Claude Mendibil, who’d then write it out for him. Adapting as he went, Mendibil learnt to start with those letters most frequent in the French language to speed things up. Being an editor, and having time on his hands, Bauby took pains to create a book inspired by his experiences. Bauby had always had a way with words. But it must have been overwhelming to know the cost and effort it took to express a single letter—no doubt Bauby quickly found ways to become an even more concise and impactful writer!

s made about him, and then in: 2007

Although close friends criticized some parts of the story’s depiction of him and his partner, the movie nevertheless touched many people, and the consensus was that the film told a difficult story in a gentle and beautiful way.

What can we learn from Bauby? Perhaps you’re immediately struck by the sheer amount of hard work it must have taken to “write” the book. While most of us take our ordinary capabilities for granted, Bauby had to work with the most meager of tools. How many times have we put off doing a task that someone less fortunate would relish simply having the opportunity to complete? There are people in the world who can easily write, and have the talent to do so, and yet never have the courage, self-discipline or faith to actually attempt it.

On the most superficial level, Bauby’s tale is a lesson in patient diligence. Every book, not just his, is written a single letter at a time. Granted, he took a longer time to write each letter, but he did it, one step at a time. The next time you’re feeling overwhelmed by the enormity of a task ahead of you, remember that your task, just like Bauby’s, is merely composed of tiny little steps. You don’t have to work miracles—you just have to do one step. And then when you’re done, do the next one.

But Bauby’s story is remarkable not just for the effort he put into writing a book. Internally, he must have dreamt up a million possible scenarios to add to his autobiography, a million metaphors or anecdotes or stories. The trouble was, he couldn’t waste too much time. Bauby was ill and would get tired quickly, over and above the grueling work of picking through letter after letter. He must have realized quickly: he needed to be concise.

The fact is, however, that none of us has endless time at our disposal. We may think we have a lot of time, but so did Bauby, before he was hit with a stroke from out of the blue. Even after his tragic stroke, he only lived two more years, and on some profound level he must have understood just how brief his time was, and how urgent it was to say what he needed to say before it was too late.

Self-discipline is an invaluable skill to learn not simply because it makes you more effective, and gives you a greater chance at reaching the goals you truly want for yourself. Self-discipline is valuable because it helps us cut to the chase. To put it bluntly, we don’t have all the time in the world.

Do we want to waste the opportunities we have on things we don’t care about? Or do we want to do our very best with the precious time we have, right here and right now? When you frame things this way, self-discipline is not so much about being strict with yourself, but valuing yourself—valuing the talents, opportunities, time and life you’ve been given. Bauby chose to use what time he had left wisely.

In Bauby’s book, Mithra-Grandchamp is a racehorse that signifies the idea of missed opportunity. The horse was meant to win a race, and Bauby and a friend intended to bet on him, but got distracted and failed to make their bets in time. Mithra-Grandchamp won the race, and they realized how much money they could have potentially made but didn’t. In the book he writes,

“The memory of that event has only just come back to me, now doubly painful: regret for a vanished past and, above all, remorse for lost opportunities. Mithra-Grandchamp is the women we were unable to love, the chances we failed to seize, the moments of happiness we allowed to drift away. Today it seems to me that my whole life was nothing but a string of those small near misses: a race whose result we know beforehand but in which we fail to bet on the winner.”

How many of our own racehorses have we let zoom by us, mistakenly thinking that there will always be another one? Can any of us say that we’ve lived a life that will leave us with no regrets should we find ourselves on our deathbeds with time to think it all over? If today was your last day, would you have felt you’d wasted it, in hindsight? Perhaps all we can do is to constantly have the self-discipline to remind ourselves that we are not so different from Bauby.

He asks elsewhere in the book, “Does it take the harsh light of disaster to show a person’s true nature?” We can take this question as a direct challenge to us as readers. Can we seize life and make the best of it without having to undergo the ordeal that Bauby did? It’s easy to agree that “you only appreciate it when it’s gone” but can we actually act, today, as though that were true? Self-discipline can be hard if all it is is hard work. But if it’s fired up from within, motivated by a deeper hunger for something you deeply understand to be finite—perhaps these are the conditions that inspire sincere action.

These are difficult things to think about, when our own mortality is not plainly staring us in the face. But we can always stop, take a moment and ask ourselves whether our thoughts, actions and words are wasting what we have, or making the best use of it. When facing a decision, it may be easier to let go of fear if you know that the regret of not acting will be so much more difficult to bear.

However, none of this is cause for hopelessness. Like Zupan, Bauby had an attitude that was refreshingly lighthearted. He didn’t wallow in self-pity, or frame himself as some tragic hero caught in a dreadful trap. When he felt alone or afraid or exhausted, he didn’t deny it, only accepted it gently, even trying to turn it into something beautiful, something poetic that others might read and feel within themselves. In this way, suffering was not a problem, per se, but merely a part of life, and life itself was so cherished, that the negative parts of it didn’t matter.

The fact that Bauby died so soon after the publication of his book is highly suggestive. The mind is a powerful thing and we can’t know if Bauby consciously left this world, satisfied that he had done what he needed to. In some ways, this is a tragic outcome. But in others, isn’t it inspiring how much can be done in a mere two years, if that’s what it comes to?

Bauby was forced to be still and to be silent, but he used this time to create. Though his body failed and he had very little means to communicate, he only ramped up his efforts to share what was in his heart with the world. There was no need to feel bitter, to curse life or go on a maudlin, self-involved journey about the “meaning of life”—rather, Bauby took the facts of his circumstances as they were, and showed us how to bear them with good-natured grace.

There are many ways for life to not go to plan, but there are also many ways to be brave, and many gifts to be had, if we know how to look.